


Wild Things

by LeftToTheDark



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Alpha Bruce Wayne, Alpha Jason Todd, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Beta Tim Drake, Bruce Wayne is Bad at Communicating, Bruce Wayne is Bad at Relationships, Dick Grayson is Not Adopted, Dick Grayson is a Talon, Former Talon Dick Grayson, He Does Improve, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Omega Damian Wayne, Omega Dick Grayson, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Child Abuse, intersex omega
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:14:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28226718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeftToTheDark/pseuds/LeftToTheDark
Summary: Dick has never had an easy life. The scars on his body and the owls in his dreams see to that. Having Jason, his brother, around helps ease the pain. But the night Dick saves a young boy with relations to Gotham’s Dark Knight, a chain of events spring into action. One that will either free him or set all he loves ablaze.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne, Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Dick Grayson/Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson
Comments: 44
Kudos: 249





	1. A Meeting for the Ages

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: memories of child abuse (implied) and drug use (from side character).

Dick’s night isn’t supposed to go like this.

He stares down at the boy in his arms, worried about the bleeding. The kid seems to have lost a lot of blood as it drenches Dick’s white dress shirt. His _only_ work shirt. He bites his tongue to stop himself from swearing. He cannot be heard. Not now. He has already tried to place pressure on the wound by wrapping it in his favourite blue scarf. This resulted in Dick having more time to figure something out, but the red liquid is still seeping out albeit at a slower pace. He needs to get out of this alley, but the men with masks hinder this plan.

He can see them now from behind a dumpster, light from one of the several windows illuminating their figures. Although, the light is still too dim to make out their uniform. They could be common thugs or belong to any gang found in Gotham, meaning he is left in the dark with who he is dealing with. Thankfully, where they are standing is not the only exit. He knows that for sure. There is another close by. Dick carefully tightens his grip on the boy as he creeps in the opposite direction, using all and any shadows to cover his tracks. He reaches a route to the left without creating a sound. Before he heads down that direction, he listens for any noise but all he hears are sounds typical to a city – rats squeaking as they nibble on rotten food, chatter from behind walls, and the daily police sirens whizzing past.

He decides to lean his head over and check for anything unusual. There is nothing. No man or woman standing guard. Dick does not relax with this information. Instead, he treks his way down the path, keeping his senses heightened for sudden changes. And it does. Voices filter through Dick’s ears as he almost reaches the end. Without a thought, he takes cover near a wooden sheet that must have been a part of a bed frame.

“–have to find the brat?” says a man, annoyance making the lisp in his tone harsher. “He’th probably already dead.”

The other man lets out a sharp _ha_. “You know chief won’t let us finish the job without finding the body.”

The man with the lisp grumbles. “How far do you think he could have gotten then?”

“I don’t know. The poison should have slowed him down.”

_Poison?!_

Dick blocks out the rest of the conversation. He needs to leave. _Now_. The boy’s breathing is becoming shallower each second. If Dick cannot get past these bastards, he has no choice but to go _up_. So that’s what he does. Dick runs towards the wall on his right and uses his feet to elevate himself off the ground. He jumps wall-to-wall in the narrow alley, taking care not to collide with any windows. It’s on his fourth jump that a bullet brushes close to his ankle and more come after. He reaches the roof when shouting from below becomes clearer, alerting the other guards to his presence.

Where could he go?

The hospital is too far and the uncomfortable questions he will be asked puts him off it. _Leslie is closer_ , he thinks as he runs across the roof before leaping onto another. He bends his legs and rolls forward to cushion the fall; the boy still curled into his arms. He does the same again and again.

Until he can see the roof of Leslie Thompkins’s clinic.

* * *

Surprise is not the first expression on Leslie as she sets her eyes on Dick and the child in his arms. In place are hard wrinkle lines from a tiring workday of dealing with those too poor to afford Gotham General Hospital fees. The lines become deeper as she ushers Dick into her medical room and orders him to place the child on the operating table.

Dick explains the situation – the poison, the stab wound on his stomach – as Leslie rushes to grab her equipment.

Dick helps to place the boy under anaesthetics as the good doctor works on his injury.

Dick hears the slow beat of the machine as it mimics the boy’s heartbeat.

Then the boy goes into shock, and the rest of the night is a blur.

* * *

Sunlight flickers through the vertical blinds as Dick collapses on a chair. He notes how his stained shirt sticks to his sweat ridden skin after the many hours helping Leslie. Grimacing, Dick recalls how much of a nightmare blood is to remove from clothes. He is most likely going to have to burn it to cover tracks. Maybe the white-haired beta has extra T-shirts she gives out to her patients when staying overnight. It’s not like he can walk out of the clinic shirtless with a kid’s blood marking his chest. He imagines some bystanders with their phones out but not to call the police. After all, cops do not have a good reputation in this part of the city – not with the many junkies, prostitutes, and average goons in the area.

One of the reasons why he chooses to live here.

Dick digs a hand into his left pocket and pulls up his own phone. It’s one of the old Wayne Tech mobiles; a gift from Jason after being frustrated with his previous brick phone. _It will make you a faster texter_ , Jason said as he handed Dick the device. In return, Dick hugged the teenage boy and felt him lean into his grip. He knew the significance of the gift. That Jason used the allowance – the pocket money Dick gives him – to buy the phone. Normally, Jason stashes the money given to him under one of the broken floorboards in his room. A habit developed from his time in Crime Alley. So, when things go bad, Jason will have enough to not starve on the streets again. For a few months at least.

But that will not happen.

Dick will make sure of that.

He presses the home button, and the screen lights up.

_Boss – 15 missed calls_

_Boss – 31 messages_

_Jason – 5 messages_

Dick decides to check Jason’s messages.

J (20:12): _Made some lasagne_

J (20:12): _Left some in the fridge_

J (20:13): _And did my homework so no need to chew me out again_

J (20:13): _I’m off to bed_

J (20:13): _Don’t do anything stupid._

Dick snorts. He got the message Jason was trying to say with the last text – _stay_ _safe_. Not that it was difficult for the teen to write the words. Jason just finds it easier to show his affections in his actions. To his younger brother, words can be easily twisted and promises broken. Like… Like when Jason’s mother swore they would leave for the hundredth time, but still be in the same room with a needle in her arm the next day. A needle his father had given her. For this reason, Dick does not blame Jason for his complicated relationship with words but tries to compensate for it with actions of his own. Filling Jason’s bookcase being one of them.

D (07:35): _Am fine. Got caught up in some trouble. Will be home soon._

Hopefully, that will not worry Jason too much as he hits send.

Dick skims through his boss’s messages. They are all the same; wondering where he is, why he is late to work and when he will be coming. He does not bother calling the man as he will most likely be asleep because the bar closes at 4 AM. Dick decides to shoot him a carefully composed message instead. He still does not know who the young boy’s attackers are or who they have links with. The more distance he puts between them, the safer Dick will be when there are repercussions. He opts on this story; he got jumped on his way to the bar – he does not talk about the shortcut he takes – and had escaped but must stay over at a clinic because of his concussion.

He checks the message five times before pressing enter.

That’s when the door to his right creaks open. The scent of bleach overpowering honeydew flow into the room before Leslie does. It is one of the few pheromones Dick takes comfort in. The many times the woman has aided him without question saw to that.

“You know where the bathroom is,” Leslie says as she holds out a grey T-shirt and some sweatpants. She had already got herself cleaned up. Not a speck of blood anywhere on her. Or even the smell. It’s routine to her.

Dick takes the clothes with a small thank you before asking, “Is the boy okay?”

She hums out an answer. “The boy is stable for now. He got through the worst of his injury. The only thing left is the poison. It doesn’t seem to be the type to cause death but weaken his muscles.”

“To slow down his movement.”

Dick remembers what the voices had said.

Leslie nods with a grave expression. “Whatever was used is also slowing down his healing process but that’s my problem and his father’s.”

_Father?_

Dick doesn’t take the bait. If it is bait. He does not want to know anything about the boy and how he got into the situation. Not knowing does not always mean ignorance. Sometimes it means safety. It’s better if he knows nothing at all.

He stands up. “I’m gonna go clean up then head home, but one last thing, don’t say I saved the boy.”

The old beta tilts her head in thought before agreeing. “I won’t tell the father.”

Dick thanks her again.

“Don’t forget your next suppressant prescription is in two weeks’ time,” the woman says as Dick walks out of the room.

He peels his soiled clothes off after locking the bathroom door and uses tap water to wipe the remaining blood off. The entire process takes about forty minutes even with soap. When he is done, he picks up his old clothes with care as to make sure it does not stain his new ones. The transferral of evidence is never a good idea. Leslie hands him a bag when he reaches the front entrance of the clinic. He places the clothes inside before heading out, the simple goodbyes echoing through his ears.

He is halfway home when he realises something.

He forgot the scarf.

* * *

It’s a Saturday.

That means finding Jason still dozing off in bed. A smile blooms on Dick’s face as he catches sight of how relaxed Jason seems to be. Compared to the first night living together, the difference is huge. On that night, Jason preferred to sleep under the bed, refusing all comfort the soft pillows above could give him. Dick understood how frightened the boy – only twelve years old at the time – was. Although, the fear was not because of Dick but his parents. How they might appear and take him away. Back to the place that had been his hell. Dick gave him a dagger in response. Telling him to keep hold of it and maybe place under his pillow when he decides to sleep in his bed. This was not the only thing. Dick slept on the floor with him. Not beneath the bed but close as to act as a barrier between him and the door. To show him that he was safe. That none could hurt him.

It took time for Jason to trust that.

For him to _believe_.

But it happened.

Now it seems to Dick that Jason has outgrown his bed as his toes hang off the edge. His little wing started going through a growth spurt at the beginning of the month. One day, he might even be taller than Dick. Not that he is far off. For a sixteen-year-old, he is only a few inches shorter to Dick’s current height. He guesses that’s a part of Jason being an alpha.

Dick wants to go over and stroke Jason’s hair. Ground himself after the night he has been through. He still smells like blood though. Something he never wants Jason to scent again. He turns back around and heads off to the shower. There he scrubs and scrubs until the smell is completely replaced with the strawberry scented body wash he loves so much. _The fucker finally fixed the boiler_ , is a thought that enters his mind while warm water pours over him. The rat-faced landlord, long nose in the air as he sniffs for unpaid bills, refused to repair the boiler despite complaints from other tenants. This went on for months. The issue seems to be fixed now. For what reason, he does not care. The season is changing into winter so warm water is good news.

He changes into more comfortable clothing when finished with his shower. Then head to the fridge to get out his piece of lasagne. Another good thing about Jason, the kid is an incredible cook and took it upon himself to make food because of Dick’s long work hours. At first, Dick had been primarily concerned because of the young boy’s eating habits. Years of malnourishment did a number on the kid as he only ate in tiny amounts. That’s when Dick began leaving a bowl of fruit on Jason’s bedside table. He hoped having something to snack on when he wakes through the night would help build his appetite.

Things changed when Jason asked for a cookery book.

And when Dick took a day off work so they could bake a cake.

No occasion needed.

That was the first time Jason had cried in front of him and accepted Dick’s comforting hug without flinching.

His phone buzzes in the background as he places the lasagne in the microwave. A message from his boss popping up.

Boss (08:45): _Not surprised. People are becoming more desperate with snow coming around. Had a homeless guy tried to rob me last week_.

Boss (08:47): _To make up for yesterday, take the job at The Lux. They’re looking for a replacement bartender for one of their events. It’s one of those corporate pat-on-the-back parties when they reach their donation goal for some obscure charity. I’ll send you the details later, but the pay is good. $40 an hour. High-class sort_ _so you know how to act._

Boss (08:47): _Don’t make me look bad._

The Lux is where Gotham’s one percent stage a lot of occasions; it could be birthdays, a daughter’s first step or even the funeral of one’s pet cat. The last one made it to the papers. A strange thing to read in the Gotham Gazette when all the other articles are about murders or the new scandal Bruce Wayne found himself in. Dick sighs as he removes the lasagne from the microwave and stabs it with his fork. The pay is appealing. A job like this would normally last from 3 PM to 1 AM because of all the preparations that must be done before the event starts. But places like those mean attention…

He can take a week off to spend with Jason. If he takes the job.

Dick sends a _sure_ and places the phone down on the kitchen counter.

He hopes he does not come to regret this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ages are a little different. 
> 
> Dick - 24  
> Jason -16
> 
> Hope you guys like this chapter. Feedback would be great.


	2. The Return

The next two days pass without an issue. The incident with the boy is already halfway to the back of Dick’s mind. His only focus is on the job at The Lux. _The event will take place tomorrow evening at 2:30 PM_ , his boss said over the phone. Then gave the rest of the details. The man had a cigarette in his mouth while he spoke. Dick could tell by the way he took a pause between sentences to take a drag and release it. It made his speech scratcher as if his words had to crawl through the smoke in his throat. A small bubble of curiosity rose within the depths of his stomach. Or maybe that was just the mango soda he drank earlier. Either way, Maxie does not smoke unless tensions are high or if something went wrong. He cares about the sound of his voice too much.

_It impresses the pretty omegas_ , the brown-haired alpha always says.

Did Dick miss something the night he did not make it to work? Maxie had given him the last two days off to ‘heal from his concussion’ and placed him on sick leave so he still got paid. Despite the man’s egotistical and overbearing nature, he does care about the wellbeing of his staff and makes sure they are in tiptop shape when serving drinks or hosting customers. He was also the one to give Dick his bartending job when he had no experience. The man never even bothered to ask for his education history – the stuff normally found in a CV. Dick is forever grateful to him for that.

He will ask Maxie what happened the next time he sees him. For now, he is cuddled up in a blanket in front of the TV. He spent the day making a nice meal – roast chicken, potatoes and more – so Jason does not have to do the work when returning home from school. If not for the night with the bleeding boy, Dick would take Jason down to their local arcade for a few games. He must lie low though. The masked men might be looking for him day and night. After all, Gotham residents know better than to believe early winter nights bring out more monsters from the dark. The villains of Gotham don’t need the cover of night to commit their crimes. They need a good motive.

Dick returns his thoughts to the trashy reality show that has become his new addiction. Not because of the content of who is fucking who – well, maybe he’s a little interested – but because of the mind-numbing effects it has. He does not have to think about anything when watching the show. All his problems are pushed away. So he sits on the couch while staring into the oblivion that is Tash’s LA mansion and the argument she is having with her ex’s new wife, Victoria. Dick hopes Tash gets revenge on her cheating ex-husband or at least does something petty. Growing up, Dick didn’t think he was the type to seek revenge for wrongdoings. The proof being his loving parents.

But things changed when _they_ made him pick up their symbol and weapon.

They are gone now.

Dick is certain of that as images of fire sway in his mind.

_Tap._

The noise draws Dick’s attention from the TV and to the window on his right. He tenses up as that sounded nothing like raindrops – weather reports saying it will rain soon – or anything remotely similar. It could be something that had fallen down the fire escape from the neighbour upstairs. His shitty neighbour has a tendency to sometimes throw rubbish out of his window instead of properly recycling. Dick doesn’t even believe he has met the man living in the apartment 72B. The rumours of him being a hermit have spread to the residents who live close to his proximity. The amount of food he orders to his door has not gone unnoticed as well, or the cleaners he hires every week to remove the empty food boxes outside his door. Dick is relieved about the latter part; living below a man with food piling his apartment would stink everything up.

_Tap._

A pebble.

A tiny pebble – or what seems to be like it – is thrown at the window before hitting the metal floor of the fire escape. Someone trying to get his attention, huh? That is the only possibility. He does not think it’s Jason as the teen has never lost his key. A promise he made after Dick gave one to him. A promise Dick did not even ask for, but the boy took it upon himself to swear to it. It was a sweet thing watching Jason gaze at the key with a hopeful look on his face.

_Tap_.

Another pebble hits the window but this time a little harder. Whoever is throwing them is starting to get a little frustrated. Dick slides a hand down the side of the couch and grips a small switchblade. Whoever is out there is probably to the left-hand side of the window because of the trajectory of the pebble and the sound of where it lands. He stands up and begins to walk towards the glass as he conceals the switchblade. It’s when he is two wary steps away that his eyes catch sight of something.

A blue scarf.

_His_ scarf.

It rests on a piece of plastic – a bag maybe – while seeming to be folded with care. The person who placed it there probably didn’t want to leave it on the dirty floor.

_I won’t tell the father_ , Leslie had vowed.

But not the _son_.

Dick heaves open the window, the ageing hinges rattling as he slides it up. He pokes his head out of the opening and turns to his left. It is easy to say that no one is there because he cannot see them, but the prickling hair at the back of Dick’s neck alerts him to being watched. He looks back down at the scarf again and reaches a hand out to collect it. The clear smell of laundry detergent wafts into his nose. Di–Did the boy clean it? The answer is an obvious yes, but for a second, the thought is hard to comprehend.

“You know, you don’t have to hide,” Dick says to the open darkness. The evening sky had lost the sun early, making it look like 9 PM instead of the actual time of around 4 PM. Unsurprisingly, Dick does not receive a response and he is not expecting one. The boy was very guarded the night Dick found him. During the time he had been conscious, that is.

The sensation of being watched does not dissipate and Dick wonders why. The boy had most likely come here to return the scarf or…

“Thank you for returning this to me,” Dick continues, his eyes flickering to a lamp light which had turned on in the alley below. “And don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.”

His last words prompt a reaction as the boy appears, crouching as he balances on the hand railing before him. Dick blinks at the sight of the boy jumping down from above, making no sound as he does it. Although, his movements are a little sluggish. Most likely because of the wound. _Should he even be out?_ Dick thinks. All his physical actions must be aggravating the injury and it’s only been two days. A wound like that would take weeks to properly heal and the way the boy is moving might extend the time to months. Leslie would be furious if she found out, and Dick does not think he can save the boy from that.

_He does not look any different, too._

The boy is wearing clothes similar to the night of the incident – a grey cloak covering a white and black bodysuit. He wonders if it is the same clothes or if the boy had spares lying around. The image of a small vigilante having a wardrobe with identical outfits amuses him. The kid is even wearing the domino mask, perhaps the exact one Dick never pulled off. Most of all, he does not look remotely older than ten years. A literal child who tried to fight someone – Dick does not know who and does not wish to find out – which resulted in him being poisoned and almost dying.

They both stare at each other for a while.

Neither of them say anything or make sudden movements.

But the boy breaks the silence before Dick can.

“You’re an omega,” the boy says, trying to keep his voice levelled but the small puffs of air often escaping his mouth illustrate his laboured breathing.

Dick nods. There was really no point hiding it. He exposed himself that night.

Dick’s route to work usually involves a shortcut at the edge of Crime Alley. One which leads to the typical club hotspots for Gotham University students or close to high-end bars for people who want a taste of the lap of luxury Gotham dangles at them. His workplace – The Olympians – is down that route. So he took that path like he had several other times. That’s when he saw the boy, struggling to walk as his arm was wrapped around his stomach and body leaning on the wall. Dick smelt the boy’s scent first before the blood. It was a mixture of soft spices and an underlying sweetness which grew heavier.

The sweetness – a stench of an omega in distress.

A _male_ omega.

The boy fell forward just as Dick caught him in his arms. He tries to struggle, the sweetness permeating from him intensifying that blood can no longer be sniffed. Dick did the only thing he could do. He released his own omega pheromones and let a purr rumble from deep within his chest. _Calm down_ , he was telling the boy with his scent. The boy slowly went lax, arms no longer flailing about before slipping into unconsciousness.

“So are you,” Dick says to the boy, forcing his mind to the present.

The boy stays silent for a few moments as if trying to formulate the right words. Then he opens his mouth to say, “I’ve never met…”

“…another male omega,” Dick finishes the sentence for him with a smile. “I’m not shocked. We’re known to be quite a rare thing.”

It’s true.

The majority of omegas born are female. Only ten percent of the omegan population are male which makes them rare when comparing them to the number of alphas and betas. Sometimes it becomes a newsworthy story when a lone town in some obscure country has a male omega born. It’s viewed to be a sign of luck and prosperity. But not a lot of these stories end happily. Kidnapping rates are high for omegas and exceptionally rampant for male omegas. The black market demands them. This resulted in news reports of omegan births being banned in certain parts of the world to ensure their security.

Sometimes it works.

Sometimes.

Dick can almost hear the gears turning in the boy’s head as he tries to process the information. During that time, Dick’s jaw twitches as questions rest on the tip of his tongue. There are many things he wishes to ask the young boy. Like who poisoned him? Why is he dressed like a vigilante? But the question that grips Dick’s throat is, what the hell is a child doing fighting thugs? The last question has nothing to do with the sexist bullshit that constantly follows omegas but a genuine concern for the kid. He doesn’t though – asking those questions means getting involved. Something he knows he cannot do.

“And you keep your scent contained,” the boy notes, sounding like an approving parent. “It takes skill to completely mask one’s scent. You seem adequate at it.”

“Uh, thanks?”

Dick doesn’t know how to respond to that. It throws him a little off guard actually. Not only because of what the kid said but how the kid’s own scent is completely hidden. Children are known to not be able to control their pheromones because of volatile emotions. That way parents are easily able to tell when a child is disturbed or happy. Things change when a child reaches their early teenage years. It’s there they learn control, but even then, it takes years to entirely conceal it. Dick was taught to hide his from an early age. His parents deemed it a need because of their travels in the circus. The training with the birds… That was for a different reason. _They_ viewed it as absolutely essential. What they did to make him cover it, he can never forget. Dick can only wonder what this boy had gone through to learn such control. It couldn’t have been easy.

The boy observes Dick from his high position on the railing. Does he want something else? If he does, Dick is at a loss of what it could be. He settles on asking, “Would you like some hot chocolate?”

The question catches the boy by surprise as it causes him to take a quick intake of frigid air. He re-composes himself a few seconds later. He seems almost hesitant in his answer as he responds with, “I can’t stay.”

Even in a few hours’ time, Dick will still not understand why he chose to say, “Another time.”

The kid does not reply – not a nod or a single word. He just continues to stare.

“Before you go,” Dick says, holding out his hand with the scarf, “you should take this. It’s freezing out here and I won’t accept no for an answer.”

The boy takes it.

He jumps down from the railing and onto the floor to reach Dick’s hand.

The screech of the front door opening can be heard from behind Dick. Jason has returned home. Dick turns his head towards the sound.

“My brother’s come home,” he says turning back to face the nameless boy. “I’ll–”

The boy is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the comments!!! It means a lot that people like this. 
> 
> Happy Holidays, too!!
> 
> Also, Bruce will make his appearance in the next chapter :D
> 
> Feedback/comments are appreciated.


	3. A Night to Remember

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Put more effort into this chapter :D

Early morning breakfasts are a rarity for Dick; a joyful experience often lost as an overworked bartender. It’s during these times he could hear the faint rumble of oncoming traffic, either to work or to drop children off at school, while the conversational chirps between birds signal the inevitable dawn. Then there would be the two door slams from Mrs. Ali’s apartment as she heads down to the building entrance. The paperboy having already completed his round, she returns home in fifteen minutes. With a replaced metal kneecap, her left leg always made one step sound heavier as she paced herself through the corridor and on the stairs. Krotchety Ken – with a ‘k’, the third-floor children say – in the adjacent flat would turn on his smoothie blender, one of the few occasions, to create a muddy blend of fruits and vegetables. The whirring noise buzzed through the walls, like a chainsaw slicing through wood. Dick thinks today might be the last day before the man ceases all attempts at following a nutritious food plan, only to retry in the coming months.

“This time,” Ken once said to Dick, lips quivering beneath his salt-and-pepper moustache, “I found a better nutritionist. Not like the last one. That one said to completely avoid sugar, you know. _Fruit_ has fucking sugar.”

But even with sound advice given, the man would stop his two-week fitness streak and return to burger joints across the road. Dick still cheers for the middle-aged Englishman at every health proclamation as the days he lasts extend at each shot. Plus, he shares the excess smoothies or veggie snacks with Jason as he leaves for school. Today is no different; Mrs. Ali’s door opens, and Ken turns on the machine. This happens while Dick and Jason sit at the small, found at a second-hand shop, dinner table. The previous owners did quite a number on the surface as multiple scratches litter it. Dick is impartial to its appearance, as a table’s use isn’t to look beautiful. It just needs to stand upright. Dick’s bowl of overnight oats – made up of blueberry, peanut butter, and honey – is on the table, while Jason’s plate of eggs, bacon, and pancakes is at the other end.

Dick lifts the spoon in his bowl, only to pull the almond-soaked oats up and merge it with the peanut butter layer. He considers how nights in Gotham are distinct as he does so. If not for the constant police sirens, many citizens would constrain themselves in silence; the slight chance of waking humanoid monsters leaves them huddled in blankets. None wanting to be a target. None wishing to catch the eye of _Joker_. However, those brave enough to trek beneath the moonless sky do so out of absolute necessity, as the other option is falling back on rent with the looming threat of winter. Dick finds himself in the latter category. At times, his job requires him to start in the evening and end as the sun halos Gotham Cathedral. After all, the rich and senior college students are a different breed of people. Both groups can spend hours in a bar and leave with either a large dent in their bank account or an unnoticeable drop.

There are also the common occasions where affluent businessmen stride in the bar with a bodyguard on hand, their way of protecting themselves. A futile approach, Dick wishes to tell the irritating Lewis Smith, as he constantly boasts how being a curator at an art gallery sustains his lavish lifestyle; that his hired guard can take on any mutt from the Falcone family. His awkward flirting compels Dick with the need to rip the leer off his face, but he decides on forcing a smile with the thought _I will lose my job_ blaring in his mind. It will only be a matter of time before the man is found dead for his comments. Dick is unopposed to the sudden ‘natural’ death, as the beady-eyed man will _finally_ shut up.

Yes, Dick can forever say, with fervour gained from the minor sunlight, that mornings are the best. Much to Jason’s displeasure. The young teen, pillow squashed against his face, would groan, “It’s too early for this shit.” But soon finds himself standing to join Dick in watching the sunrise.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

Dick lifts his gaze from the plops of purple liquid seeping from stabbed berries. Jason is staring at him, a slight downward turn at one corner of his mouth. The evident expression of worry matures his youthful features – wrinkles on his forehead becoming more prominent; tense cheeks causing his adorable dimples to appear non-existent; eyebrows arched similar to stern adults scolding their kids. It makes Dick aware of the passing years. The rare birthmark in Jason’s hair adds to the ageing effect. Mallen streak, it’s known as; white strands gathering to form a striking patch against the backdrop of black. When enrolling into high school, Dick had asked Jason if he preferred to hide the birthmark by adding colour. The boy refused but did not give specifics on why. It was the picture of an old woman, hidden within his copy of _Bleak House_ by Charles Dickens, which made Dick understand.

His grandmother had the same birthmark.

Jason never did speak of her or the impact she had on him, but the photo’s sign of careful handling said more than enough. Dick made sure to prepare a doctor’s note in case of unwanted accusations, and there had been a few. The first by the school’s principal was resolved after many talks. Then the teachers spread rumours of him lying for attention, citing how it’s causing other students to dye their own hair. Despite all the trouble, the almost-taller teen continues to ignore all chatter and demands for the ‘truth’. Dick is proud of him for that, and his refusal to bend to their whims.

“Yeah,” Dick replies, imagining his spoon as a tabletop soccer player when it hits a berry. “It’s been a weird few days, so not looking forward to work.”

Jason nods in understanding, his own cutlery trying to slice into strips of bacon. “Being in the presence of pretentious bastards can really be exhausting but picturing their head on a pike really helps. No wonder the French decided to rebel.”

Dick snorts. “I don’t think they revolted for that single reason,” he says, allowing a smile to bloom and slight chuckles to escape him. “But I’ll take your word of advice.”

“As you should,” he responds, dimples returning to his cheeks. “I did when Mr. Evans kept asking me to answer questions in class.”

“Oh?”

Dick recognises the name, had met the man at the last parent-teacher conference. One of the English classrooms was chosen as their meeting place. The appointment had been at around 4 PM, but Dick made sure he and Jason arrived ten minutes before as they always did to school meetings. Dick’s first impression of Evans was him being a bumbling fool, droning on about his award-winning poems in famed magazines or the book he was writing. The man barely spoke about Jason’s performance in class. A few words here or there, but nothing more. It grated on Dick’s nerves. So whenever the man began to go off-topic, Dick would instantly ask another question about Jason. The man would flush, blotchy red joining his freckled face, before answering this question. It went on like this for thirty minutes.

When the meeting was over, Evans extended a hand, and Dick shook it. Then the sharp inhale of air could be heard; he was trying to catch a whiff of Dick’s pheromones. Instead of pulling back, Dick put more strength into the handshake until the man winced. He let go of the man’s bright pink hand and said, “It’s inappropriate to scent a student’s guardian.”

They left after that.

“Is he still bothering you?” Dick asks, preparing the strong-worded email in his head. Weaponised politeness is the best thing to use when authoring emails. This way, his words will not be used against him.

“Kinda,” Jason replies, shrugging his shoulders. He places his fork down to grab his cup of coffee. “Mostly because I fell asleep in a previous class.”

“ _Jason._ ”

“What?” he says, after a few sips of the bitter liquid. “I already read The Crucible. I don’t really need to listen to others read it out loud.”

Dick huffs. “Just try not to sleep again.”

Jason smacks his lips together. “Won’t make any promises.”

* * *

 _The Lux is certainly something_.

The thought enters Dick’s mind in the same way guests strut through the ballroom door – with exaggerated purpose, hiding the ability to latch its claws onto anyone. And like the heirs of some wealthy empire, the thought lays heavy as the need to be a consuming presence among other insignificant ideas fills it with authority. The single thought about the Lux is why Dick cannot think of anything other than the distinctive ballroom interior, such as the deep red decorating the walls. Or the domed ceiling painted with fake gold. A curious imitation – an inspiration, they humble themselves – of the Moulin Rouge aesthetic. What’s missing are the neon signs glaring across the room but are replaced with chandeliers that try to mute the bright colours. Truly a strange place to hold a charity event, but the guests do not think anything of it. Many stroll in six-inch heels, the sound reminding Dick of horses’ hooves; others stand with a glass of champagne in their hand, vulture eyes searching for familiar faces.

Dick is behind one of the three main bars in the corners of the room. His station is the closest to the stage, where the main speech will take place later this night. It is to be given by the director of Feeding the Future. A well-known charity that believes the lack of resistance to diseases fruits and vegetables have will create a crisis for future generations. Tonight’s event focuses on bananas, as the money raised will fund research into finding solutions to an unstoppable disaster. Arthur Jones is the name of the man who created this charity. Well, the name was written on the leaflet handed to Dick as he entered the establishment. He has never met the man and will most likely not. The rich, whether doing something for charity or not, tend to stick to their own. This is what he comes to expect.

Thankfully, he is not alone as a lanky man named Sam is placed with him. They both had already begun making drinks as guests rocked up to them. The bulk of these people were polite and ordered their drinks with no trouble. He cannot say the same for certain individuals. One snob, in a three-piece tanned suit, kept changing his mind when deciding what to order. Another returned to complain how her wine was corked – it was not – and demanded it be changed. The final one sent a waitress, a sweet woman named Ellie, in his place. His grievance was how the vodka and lemonade tasted wrong. Sam took the drink to just pour the contents into another glass before handing it back to the waitress. Dick had to hold in his laughter at Ellie’s baffled expression. She did not say a word to the owner of the drink but told Dick and Sam the man was now satisfied.

As people danced to jazz, Dick and Sam continue to make cocktails, wines, or beers for colourful characters. Dick’s first break comes when the director takes his place on stage, signalling everyone should take their seats at designated tables. The lights soon turn low, excluding the ones on him. The image of Arthur Jones within Dick’s head does not match the appearance of the man before him. Dick, with his prejudices, would usually think of the uberwealthy as old men who’ve lost their relatable touch. They would have forgotten or never known what it means to live paycheck by paycheck. Even the lack of food one may have in their cracking fridge. To be in the company of people where their reality does not match his own makes for some memorable conversations. Particularly the ones he overhears.

Dick recalls how one woman explained that having a broken leg for six months made her ‘disabled’, and she was able to find out who her ‘true friends’ were. Another instance was a man telling a friend how his son asked for a ten-thousand-dollar allowance per week while in college. Dick can only blink in response and pretend he cannot hear anything. Arthur Jones, the man behind this event, does not seem to be like those people. The man is wearing what can be considered an out of fashion, cheap grey suit, but it does not bother him. His boyish face makes him appear to be younger than he probably is. The barely-held-together sneakers he wears surprises Dick. The audience shows no hint of disgust or anything similar. They latch onto every word which escapes his mouth.

Dick focuses on his talk.

“The lack of disease resistance,” he says, blonde hair somehow reflecting the light, “found within fruits illustrates itself to be an inevitable disaster. When there is a possibility of one disease taking over a banana tree, then there is the possibility of it taking overall. I implore you to join me in showing your support to combat this issue…”

Dick zones out after a few seconds. Seems like an important but not very riveting topic. He decides to stare at the dark silhouettes of the audience instead. He wonders if he will recognise anyone. Dick should. He has bartended at other high-class events and would see usual faces like Vicki Vale from Gotham Gazette or Mayor Hamilton Hill. Crime families are not normally at events like these unless it benefits them. So, Dick can safely say there are none here, or there would be a huge commotion of hushed words. Maybe the Drakes will make an appearance this time. They have not been going to events for the past few weeks causing rumours to spread. The Commissioner of the GCPD can never go to events like this unless it involves the police in terms of protection. Otherwise, he risks being condemned for wasting his time. Dick can only wait–

The main ballroom doors open, submerging the room with bright light. People, including Dick, turn their heads to see who dares to interrupt the talk. Being too far away, Dick cannot catch sight of this person (or people). However, like a wave rushing to the front, whispers reach his ears in a matter of two minutes. Arthur must have also caught sight of the new guests as he begins to stumble through his presentation. He soon recovers and does his best to regain interest.

He fails.

After all, what can he do?

 _Bruce Wayne_ has entered with a mysterious woman holding his arm.

* * *

The presentation is cut short by twenty minutes, permitting the guests to return to mingling. This ends up creating two types of people; the ones with the confidence to go straight to Wayne and chat with him; a few others watching on the side-lines, like carnivorous animals waiting to feast on the latest words out of Wayne’s mouth. During this time, Dick does not have to make many drinks. Everyone’s awareness is too focused on Wayne and the mysterious black-haired woman. Makes his life easier. Although, this changes when the crowd starts moving in Dick’s direction. Like the story of the sea parting, the crowd breaks to let the most topic-worthy people of the night walkthrough. And it is these people who stop right in front of Dick’s bar. Dick flashes his infamous ‘customer satisfactory’ smile at the two but is promptly ignored. Something he is used to. He just has to keep smiling until they fucking order and leave. _Please_ , Dick thinks, _let this be a quick order._ But it is not.

“…never realised how much people crave your attention,” the woman says, green eyes glancing back and forth between Wayne and the other guests. She places her diamond-studded purse on the table as she decides to completely focus on Wayne. Her silver embroidered dress matches the purse, Dick observes.

Bruce chuckles – a smooth sound to some – but it peeves Dick. It seems fake, like the way Dick is forcing a smile. But the man says, “There are many pitfalls of being born a Wayne, but this is not one of them. Would you enjoy it, Nicole? Life in the spotlight?”

The words appear to carry a heavy weight to them, but it is completely lost on the black-haired woman. The idea of living in the spotlight causes her cheeks to burn with excitement, as she responds with, “If it means being with you.”

Dick wants to be sick. Preferably on Wayne’s expensive designer suit, hoping that will cause them to leave. But Maxie’s words echo in his head. _Don’t make me look bad_. Dick has to force the corners of his lips to go higher as to stop himself from scowling. As if sensing his thoughts, the woman turns to Dick. She aims a seductive smirk at him, and her gaze trails across his work uniform. Trouble is brewing, he knows. Is Wayne the type of man – alpha – to be possessive over what is his? Dick does not look at him.

“And what’s your name?” she asks Dick, curiosity blooming across her face. “I’ve never seen you here before. You must be new.”

Dick continues to give his best smile, no matter how her examining eyes make him feel. “Richard. My name is Richard Grayson. And you’re right, I’ve been asked to fill in for tonight.”

“It’s lovely to meet you, Richard. I’ll have a Passionfruit Martini.”

The woman says the name of the drink as she glances in Wayne’s direction before settling her look back on Dick. _A Pornstar Martini?_ This woman is really not trying to hide her intentions. Dick can admire that. If her goal is to sleep with the most eligible bachelor in Gotham, she might as well shoot her shot. Dick wishes her luck in her endeavour and hopes he plays no part in it.

“And what would you like, Mr. Wayne?” Dick asks, moving his attention to the man.

There he sees Wayne with an unreadable expression. There is no fake smile or false light of happiness in his eyes. Dick is so startled by the look that his grin almost falters, but years of training keep it in place.

“Mr. Wayne,” Dick repeats, “is everything okay?”

Wayne snaps out of his peculiar reverie and returns to his previous guise of false interest. Though, there is a hidden emotion that taints it. Everything seems more forced.

“Richard Grayson?” Wayne echoes, an illegible emotion causing his jaw to tighten.

“…yes?”

“I’ll have an Old Fashioned, please.”

Dick nods and quickly turns to make the drinks. He can hear the both of them continue their chatter behind him. And for some reason, he can feel Wayne’s intense gaze. This is confirmed when Dick catches the man’s eyes through the metal cocktail shaker. Bewilderment causes him to work faster. Fortunately, Sam is already mixing Wayne’s drink. After a few minutes, the drinks were handed over to the guests. There is no thank you or comments like the drinks are lovely. They both leave in the same way they came, ignoring all outside their bubble. This is what Dick wants to believe, but Wayne still turns to stare for a few seconds.

 _Note to self_ , he thinks, _stay away from Wayne._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I learnt that bananas use to have seeds. 
> 
> Also, thanks for all the comments and kudos. Hope you guys enjoyed Dick and Bruce's first interaction. 
> 
> Would love to read your thoughts on this chapter :D


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